


Think

by Amy_Stark117



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Idk i just wanted to write something soft, Original Character(s), Reader-Insert, Spoilers, bc im kinda getting a crush on schofield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy_Stark117/pseuds/Amy_Stark117
Summary: After all that has happened, Schofield can finally sit and think about...everything.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Schofield/Reader, Will Schofield/Reader, William Schofield/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Think

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first time writing in like...2 years?? and i haven't posted here before but i really wanted to write something for 1917 because i was absolutely blown away by it and george mackay is kinda cute so!! Here you go, even tho no one will probably read this lol I'm extremely rusty please forgive this nonsense.

As Schofield leans back against the tree, the rough texture of the bark barely even noticeable after the torturous events of the last few hours, he allows himself a moment to just...think.

He thinks of the war. It's hard not to, especially with the constant churning of his stomach that never goes away as every second passes in the trenches. He thinks of the pretty lies spun to all these toy soldiers, lies of duty and pride and the honour to fight for one’s country. In a sense, he doesn't mind it, fighting to protect the country he lives in and loves is an unfortunate necessity in this current stage of life. But too many times has he looked upon the haggard faces of his fellow soldiers, looking all too similar to the corpses littering no man's land, and wished it could be different. For everyone. They're ill, they're starving. They're tired. And he _hates_ it. For Christ's sake, most of them were _children_. Blake was-

He thinks of Blake. Tom. His friend. It puts a knot in his throat that he just can't swallow. He was so young, so lively in a world muted in grey. He thinks of all the things that were, and could have been. He regrets being harsh. He regrets the things he has said. Blake could have gotten his medal, to show to all the proud faces back home. He could've gotten himself a girl, one like from the stories he used to read, where they'd play with his hair in beautiful gardens and they'd dance in the moonlight. He could've seen the end of this stupid war, and moved on with his life (though Schofield doubts _anyone_ will be able to move on from this). He thinks of Blake’s brother, how watching his face fall made it feel like a knife was shoved through his belly. He makes a promise to write to him, as well as Blake’s mother. To tell him more about how much his younger brother meant to Schofield. Maybe it will provide some sort of solace, but Schofield can’t even begin to imagine what Joseph Blake is going through right now. Maybe he’ll give him the medal he more than likely earned, on behalf of Tom. He deserved it more.

Most importantly, he thinks of you.

His fingers trace along the edges of the pictures in his hands absentmindedly, and he sighs. There’s not a moment, a second, that passes, where he doesn’t think of you. His girls stay on his mind as frequently as he breathes. You are his life, his soul, and for once in his life he looks forward to going home. As much as he despises it, loathes the thought of coming back only to leave again, there’s nothing more he wants than to just have your arms wrap around him and hold him safe, close to the warmth of your chest. He’s so sick and tired of pretending to be strong, like he isn’t on the verge of crying every time he opens his eyes. All he wants is to sit in front of the fire and watch his girls play, their imaginations as wild and carefree as one could ask for. He wants to listen to the sounds of the local market, watching as you pick out ingredients for dinner and laugh with the local baker about some stupid story he never really cared for. He wants, and wants, and _wants_ , and it’s so frustrating how he can never get and he just-

He thinks about you, his children, his home. His family. How every thought of your voice gives him the power to keep going, keep moving, survive, and come home.

He opens his eyes and looks at the pictures again.

He thinks, until it’s too much noise in his head.

He sighs, so weary and drawn out. He puts the pictures safely back into the case and next to his heart, where you belong.  
Time to keep moving.


End file.
